A Private Matter
by Kristen999
Summary: “When helping others, do not look for a reward if you are looking for rewards, don’t help others.” Chinese Proverb. Nick offers aid to an unlikely person and ends up being helped himself.
1. Chapter 1

Title: A Private Matter (1/9)

Author: Kristen999

Spoilers: None. Time line somewhere in Season 4.

Disclaimer: All rights belong to CBS and all their fine writers. Please don't sue. This is just for fun.

Summary: "When helping others, do not look for a reward; if you are looking for rewards, don't help others." -Chinese Proverb.

Nick offers aid to an unlikely person and ends up being helped himself.

Notes : This is a totally different type of fic for me, so do keep that in mind. Exploring a few elements and stretching some boundaries of my normal stuff. Feedback appreciated on this side project. The full length piece with Beth is still cooking along. I wrote this in some off time and it took a few people to convince me to post it here. I hope you enjoy where the muse went.

Thanks to Beth as always for her beta work.

* * *

It was daytime, stark brightness and heat. Everything too intrusive, the outside world busy with the mundane tasks of the ordinary trapped in routine. Foliage surrounded her yard, sweet scented flowers and luscious greens. Calmness in the midst of desert, though surrounded by walls and gates. Tiny entrances and escapes hidden in the hearts of everyone who visited her world.

The Domain.

She sipped at her glass of water under the shade of an umbrella. An aide silently walked over, nodding once as she stood at attention.

"Yes, Bridget."

The subdued woman, in a simple dark cotton dress spoke. "Your visitor is waiting."

"Escort him here and then leave us," she replied, her tone kind.

"Yes, Madame." And silently her staff member disappeared.

She reclined in a wicker chair, crossing her legs, the fabric of her black skirt flowing easily. Her guest walked slowly, his stride obviously awkward. Assurance and self-confidence in the physical task unable to mask the uneven gait. She didn't make any noticeable movements; her eyes followed his approach, his tiny laugh lines indicative of uncertainty.

There was no mold of man that she had not met. Every shade, or manner that bent definitions and sometimes defied them. Every litmus test imagined studied.

Yet.

Her moist lips took in more refreshment, her heartbeat tame and steady. Skin perfect, void of perspiration even in this heat. At the same time as the southern gentleman wiped droplets of sweat from his brow, dark designer sunglasses sticky where the wire met the tops of moist cheeks.

The criminalist stood before her, curiosity piqued, muscles of his throat working in tandem with heavy breathing. Hands went to hips of low riding denim. Rivulets of sweat rolled down the contours of his throat and down skin exposed by the unbuttoned portion of a clean white shirt.

Yes, yet, this very simple man did beep on her radar. Strange indeed.

"Sit down, Mr. Stokes." Even behind those shades undoubtedly his eyes went straight to her dark colored lips.

He shifted his weight back and forth on both feet and finally pulled up a chair. A tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip, then he paused momentarily before speaking. "Um, you asked to see me? Ms--"

She raised an eyebrow, and he ducked his head in reaction, noting his faux pas. Her mouth curved in a smile.

"I mean, Lady Heather," his accent much thicker this time.

"Would you like some water? You must be thirsty." She poured from a crystal pitcher of crushed ice and Evian before he answered.

Nick took the offered glass, cubes swirling when he stirred it with a tilt back and forth of his hand.

His eyes questioned the validity of the gesture, of its ruse. _That was quite encouraging_, she thought.

He stared at the beverage and chuckled to himself. "You're certainly sure of many things."

"That's one step," Heather replied.

The man drank down greedily, his flushed face relaxing. Once satisfied he set the glass down, fingers rubbing at the condensation. "One step in what?"

She rested her weight on her elbows, closing the distance between them. "In getting what you want."

He pushed his rolled sleeves up further along tantalizing arms, veins close to the surface, a sign of a body type void of most fat. Her guest stared at his hands. "I guess that's true. And what exactly is it that you want from me?"

This mistress didn't need to see the eyes he tried hard to hide behind tinted lenses to sense the raw pain, veiled in a confident voice. "I need your help."

Laughter was a defense mechanism, a sign of insecurity. Heather didn't understand how this man could feel such a thing.

"I'm serious," she explained rubbing a fingertip along the outlined circle of glass, emitting a hum from the contact.

"I'm a crime scene analyst," he defended, sitting back against the wicker. He looked away at some fascinating point in the sky. "One that's on leave for a while."

"Doesn't change the fact that I'm in need of your expertise."

He rubbed at his thigh, face skewed up in a grimace. "Why did you contact me?"

"Would you take your sunglasses off?"

He ran his hand through silky black hair, still avoiding eye contact.

"Do you find it too difficult to look at me?"

He bristled, then removed the obstruction to his face. Dark brown eyes stared at her, a flicker of real challenge.

_That's it_, she thought.

"Better."

The silence didn't bother her, though it seemed to cause her companion to fidget.

She took a wedge of lemon, chewed on the end thoughtfully, the sourness flooding her taste buds. "I have a private issue that needs to be dealt with. An investigator of your skill and manners is exactly what I need. I'll compensate you for services rendered."

Anticipation was also part of her forte. Heather sucked on the last of the fruit and dropped it into a now empty glass. "This isn't official. I don't want to attract attention, but I need evidence. Involving the police is not discreet, and I believe in privacy."

"M---, Lady Heather. I'm not sure what it is that you need, but I'm not a private detective, and even if I decided to try to help, nothing would stand up in court. I... nothing I could do would be legal."

Her stomach filled with a soft, warming heat not felt in a while. A tingle from her chest to her limbs, her fingers curled around the smooth glass to allow the sensation to move along nerve endings.

"If I wanted a court date, I'd hire some flatfoot. No, I want someone accurate and not distracted. Proof and the rest will take care of itself."

She was used to coaxing people, making them feel comfortable with something that they wanted. It was a pity that true desire for things created insatiable needs to dissociate from what was so longed for or needed.

"I'm the wrong person to ask. The LVPD, or... I mean, Grissom could--"

"No!"

He flinched.

Her first real kernel of emotion, a flash then it was gone. Face neutral, easygoing manner back. "I don't think he's right for the job. I need your help." She was manipulating for sure. Voice softer, rougher, making eye contact.

He was melting but something... Wrong, terrible held him back.

She took a hold of his hand resting on the table, rubbing a thumb over the smoothness of skin there, her fingernails skating over his knuckles.

He swallowed a large lump.

Heather knew it was now or never. "Mr. Stokes, it's difficult to put blind faith in someone... but I sense I can do it with you."

His voice shook. "Lady Heather, I'm not even cleared for field work. Can you really hold that kind of stake in something that you really shouldn't?"

The skin of his palm was warm, that deep rattling tone, brassy and desperate. It had been awhile since her mouth dried up.

They made them naked and bare in Texas.

"I think you're the best hope I have. Can you be anything other than honest?"

His other hand went back to massage the area in his thigh, a source of more than one set of pain.

"We could meet tomorrow night. Then I could show you around, get you settled into the case." Her eyes shined nakedly, her pulse sped up, fingers digging into the skin of his hand not yet released.

"I---I," he gulped. His face contorted in what only a horrid memory could inflict on such raw openness.

"You'd rather sit at home? You could rewind what haunts you forever and over again. Won't take away the pain, in your leg or elsewhere," she dared.

The gall in his features was back, that primal urge couldn't hide what she really saw deep down inside.

Stubbornness. She was right.

"I'll come by and check things out tomorrow. Then we'll talk."

The sunglasses were slapped back on and he stood, hand out to shake hers.

She smirked. Slim fingers took hold of boldness. "Good. Ask for Bridget if I'm indisposed."

He almost gained impassiveness, though that tiny flash was enough to make her stand straight.

"I'm a very good judge of character, even if you don't believe it."

The criminalist seemed to fold in on himself. "We'll see."

He turned to leave, his retreating form the last glimpse until the next night. Lady Heather could not- would not deny a new charge ---it would take some time to decide what to do with it.

* * *

He entered his home, the blinking light of his answering machine demanded attention. He threw his mail into the trashcan; a couple important pieces got added to the growing pile of unopened ones. Nick stared at the tiny red light, the number of messages displayed.

Only four this time.

His fingers hovered over the button and instead he bent over and yanked the electrical cord out of its socket and he let it thump to the floor.

"Just leave me alone", he muttered to the now silent machine.

He pulled out his wallet and keys, then carefully placed them on his end table. His hand drifted towards his hip, only to brush over a belt, and nothing else.

He let his palm slide over the side of his jeans, feeling incomplete.

His eyes drifted over at the drawer beneath the items that he had just discarded. His tongue traced over his teeth, eyes squinting.

Fingers massaged his tense neck, willing it all away. _The sound of his feet pounding asphalt. The odor of Chinese food drifting from the nearby restaurant._

After several minutes of not moving, eyes glued to that stupid drawer he groaned as he ambled over to his sofa. He bit his lip, settled down to the plush cushions, dragging his dead left leg to lay all the way forward, the muscles of his thigh stiff and so very sore.

He rested his head back, leaned it against the corner. He scanned his living room... kitchen. His garbage piled up in their receptacles and the entire contents of his cabinets overwhelmed the kitchen sink.

He thought about buying paper plates, or hitting the speed dial for his favorite fast food; would be easier than dealing with the mess. No energy or motivation to get up and do anything about it. He rubbed at his leg, lip curling into a snarl. He pressed his fingers over his eyes, trying to understand why he had agreed to assist in something he knew nothing about.

He thought of freshly squeezed lemons and gave his head a shake.

What a strange little world; filled with things he knew nothing about, not that he had ever really cared to.

He fell asleep with the memory scents of carnations and black leather.

_"You've got a flinch, Stokes. But you scored high enough on everything to pass. Better work on that for next year."_

He woke up hours later, covered in a cold sweat, room filled with his screaming. Then he buried his head into the sofa to cover up his reddened face.

tbc...

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

It was fair outside, no extremes in temperature, the city lights soft and hazy on the horizon. She pulled a piece of fluff from her stockings, zigzag designs ensnaring a wayward fuzz that lived out there in the air. Burgundy acrylic flicked it away, ears perked to hiking boots on cobblestone. Heather pushed off with her foot; the wood creaked as it was set in motion.

"Good evening, Mr. Stokes. Glad you came." Heather smiled, a gentle breeze drifting around her from the rocking.

Lines appeared around the ends of his mouth when he stretched those lips, humor tingeing his face. It was a sign of someone who enjoyed life.

"Would you like to swing?" she asked.

"I'll sit here, if you don't mind," he drawled, pulling up a piece of green aluminum patio furniture.

"There's iced tea in the pitcher. Help yourself." The mistress pointed at another container waiting with two glasses, one dry, the other recently drank from, resting on a cast iron end table.

His eyebrows arched up. "You selected this for me?"

"That would be a stereotype of your soft accent. It's unsweetened, just the way _I_ like it." Heather replied, a tip of a boot tapping the ground to continue the momentum.

The curve of his mouth broadened. "You don't know what you're missing."

"Hmmmmm," the mistress replied.

She eyed his formfitting black cotton T-shirt, and a matching pair of jeans. The tee was new, fibers stiff, unworn. She dug her heel into the ground to cease her motion, and leaned forward. It smelled of being recently store bought.

"You dress for the occasion?" Her eyelashes blinked, as his soft, thick looking ones did so twice as fast.

Nick shifted in his seat. "I wanted to blend into my surroundings."

"Really. And do they help?"

Pink tinted his cheeks, the grin bigger, overcompensating. Even in the lack of light his tanned completion worked well with the added hue.

"I'm not sure yet. Though I like to wear the color, just all my old ones needed washin'."

Heather noticed the dark circles under his eyes, also brought out by his manner of dress. "Comfort around unfamiliar environments is gained with the ease within your own skin."

He tilted his head to admit her words, the genuineness so alluring. He moistened his top lip this time before he spoke. "Been tryin' real hard on that one, though--" The younger man glanced around and back towards the house. "This place isn't exactly my type of ballgame."

Heather stood up, her necklace dangling briefly from the movement. Nick's face went to blank pallet, and then to alarmed within seconds. He matched her, rising to his feet, mouth opened. "I'm s---"

Her fingertip traced the corner of his mouth. "Do you always go right to an apology before comprehending the situation?" Her nail continued along the outer edge of that square jaw, watching his curious eyes observe her.

"Sometimes," was the thick reply.

She traced up towards his earlobe, more fingers ready to explore over a sideburn and into his dark hair. Brown eyes sizzled, almost lost in her touch, before he ducked away cautiously.

Fingers left his skin and stroked the smooth obsidian of the charm that rested on her chest. "And what would make things seem more secure for you?"

He held his head up high. "If I didn't know how to adapt, I wouldn't have remained in Vegas, ma'am."

She smiled coyly. "Indeed," and the radar blip jumped.

The chains squeaked as the mistress relaxed back in the swing, content with observing her guest as he did the same of her.

"Why did you contact me? I mean…" He rubbed at his leg absently. "We exchanged a few words at the most in the past. I would seem to be nothing more than just background noise."

Heather caught another lazy tuft of fuzz along the hem of her skirt and plucked it from the fabric. She held it delicately between her fingertips, poised in front of her mouth. "Everyone who walks in here has a presence; some more subtle than others. While your colleagues seemed amused, or intrigued, you were simply… mystified."

He bowed his head again, another affectionate trait, his bottom lip punished by biting teeth. "I wasn't mystified, just…"

"Just what?"

He cleared his throat, his eyes shifting up towards those thick brows with his head still lowered. "I read about these places, seen pictures and all." He shrugged defensively. "I just think you don't need costumes or tools for sex."

Heather blew the piece of fuzz away and followed its escape as it drifted to the ground. She drew her gaze at her visitor. "Your voice gets lower when you're embarrassed, and you grin more to cover it up." She paused, "But at least you're not trying to tell me you're sorry for how you feel."

Heather took in her domain, eyes skimming over its various windows imagining the kinds of pleasure and pain behind them. "People are complex as you know in your line of work. It's sad that something so basic a need is constantly buried in insecurity, misconstrued or twisted in definitions of morality."

Nick remained quiet.

"Even the animal kingdom recognizes its importance next to the pillars of food and water." She stilled her sway. "There is no judgment here. Passion, lust, fear. It's all free to be expressed, no matter what is needed to stimulate, or tear away the barriers to it."

She drew in a deep lungful of air, admiring the light added aroma of musk and aftershave, her mind imagining the dark bottle of cologne. Heather knew the brand; she knew them all. Exhaling slowly she sat back and waited.

"What do you want of me?" His voice was throaty this time, eyes darker.

"Someone is blackmailing my clients. Threatening to expose their business here...in detail." Her last word was as anger-filled as she would get.

"Lady---"

She rewarded him with a sharp stare and he never finished his thought. "These clients receive written letters of extortion, citing details of their activities here, and then a demand of money in exchange for pictures of their time here. All correspondence is sent to their place of work."

"How is the money to be sent?" he asked, face a mask of pure focus.

"I'm not told, as every customer thus far has paid the blackmail, and didn't want to give me any details. Afterwards, I lost their business and this is just from the three that have stepped forward; there could be others."

"You haven't seen any of these supposed pictures?"

"No."

"So there might not be any," the criminalist thought out loud as he fiddled with a silver ring around his finger. A plain, simple piece of jewelry; masculine, eloquent, with the tiniest engraved design.

"I can't be sure," Heather replied.

"You have any of the written notes?"

"No."

Nick's mouth thinned in thought. "The details are accurate, correct?"

"Yes, I know that much," the mistress replied, containing the fire that burned deep.

Outwardly she continued the conversation as a matter of business. Her threshold for keeping feelings under control a well-trained discipline. Her fingers passed over smooth skin, ghosting over the stone on her choker. She adjusted the left strap of her corset, placing it back along the center of a bare shoulder, keeping it in its proper place.

His eyes stayed attentive to her face, to what she had to say. Never did they drift over to her breasts, or undress her outfit, even though it was carefully chosen for drawing attention. Even the slight patch of skin exposed between skirt and top had not garnered quick little looks.

Heather would normally associate this lack of normal male behavior and curiosity as a negative. However, as the object of her musing mulled over the information she found it an interesting trait. Quite...old fashioned.

She wondered.

He finally spoke, though she was pretty sure of what he would say.

"Lady Heather, this is really a matter for the police. A real investigation backed by warrants, legal ways to arrest and prosecute. I'm just a civilian, one that's…" Her guest cursed, jaw clamped tightly. "I don't think even if you ...I'm not the right person to help you."

He even used some of the words she had thought he would, turning down her offer. "I'm not interested in a trial. I just want facts undisputed and, as I said, things will resolve themselves. You are good at finding clues, are you not?"

"It's not that simple," he grunted.

"No, you're making it complicated." She raised her head, eyes daring him to refute things.

The tendons along his neck tensed, the muscles flexing under the newly purchased shirt enough to be noticeable.

"I know it's an inside job," she said easily.

Nick sized her up. Heather wondered what he was trying to examine, what he racked his brain over that he might have missed.

Seems they shared one thing in common.

"You're right, it has to be one of your employees, or...er... servants. You prepared to face betrayal?"

"In this life you have to be prepared to face adversity at every corner." She eyed the V-neck of his tee; another piece of fuzz took root on what should be pristine.

Nick murmured under his breath. "I can't go to the lab with anything. I can't--"

Heather leaned over, bending down to snatch the fuzz with her fingertips. His scent was stronger, oil glands, endorphins, all mixing together to create a distinct memory. The dark hairs of five o'clock shadow poked through perfect skin, accenting his cheeks, and other admirable traits. She showed him the troublesome lint.

His eyes went to her cleavage like an insect to flame and they dilated with wild admiration.

"Do you approve?" she asked, completely candid about her actions and his.

He drank her in, then locked eyes with her, "Kind of hard not to, though it won't help me with your problem," Nick joked, able to roll with the innuendo

Heather relaxed back into her rocking, a smile on her lips. "Great detectives in their day didn't need million dollar equipment to find their culprits. I trust your abilities and I know you would do what you could to protect people's privacy, even if you didn't understand it."

Silence again, her back against curved wooden beams.

Nick looked at her and took a deep breath. "I'll look into things, all right? See what I can find out, then we'll take things a few steps at a time."

She had been right again. "Thank you. Taking things slow is always a smart choice."

The criminalist relaxed, shoulders more at ease. Heather scooted over and patted next to her. "When's the last time you were on a swing?"

There was a brief flash behind brown eyes, and he laughed.

"I won't bite, Mr. Stokes. Unless you ask me to that is."

His face flushed, and he shook his head again...but he stood. Awkwardly at first, which he quickly tried to hide. Of course she knew about that too, but..…

He walked over, still chuckling; it was a sight so rare in her line of work, so openly modest. This fine-looking man sat next to her, not too close, and she planted the toe of her boot into the cobblestone and pushed off, beginning the momentum once again.

She kept her hands to herself and her guest even relaxed a little as the wind kicked up from their sway. "Enjoying simple things is the spice of life, Mr.---"

He held up his hand to cut her off. "If I'm going to be working for you, call me Nick."

Lady Heather nodded. "Sit back and enjoy the swing, Nick. You're not on the clock yet."

* * *

tbc... Notes always at my bio.


	3. Chapter 3

Eliminating suspects wasn't as difficult as he thought. After being granted access to the office, it was clearly evident that several passwords were required to obtain personal client information. Address, contact number, and some detailed profiles for longer-term customers. All three former clients had received services for nearly two years on a consistent basis. Based on that small sample it was possible that the targeted had been regulars.

Only long-term customers had any pertinent information kept for the basis of taking care of future needs. Each blackmailed client met with a small list of specific workers from the domain. The third extorted customer kept strictly to the services of one employee.

Nick refrained from reading what exactly the services were for the moment, but so far there wasn't one singular domain employee that had provided services to all of the blackmailed clients.

Access to this information was key, and that narrowed down who would be able to get to Heather's computer or hack into it. The Lady of the house gave him files of employees who could use her password, a scant three people, and those who had tech backgrounds. One thing was for sure; the mistress protected the rights and privacy of those who worked for her along with that of her clientele.

He'd been making notes, lists actually, with a real sense of energy. Nick missed this kind of drive. He'd been cooped up and was lethargic from being locked away in his home for too many hours.

If the existence of photos was a real possibility he'd know how to divide his energies. Heather promised him access to two of the rooms used for those who had been blackmailed to see any possible way that their 'actions' could be documented, and that could lead to other trails, other possibilities.

Nick had some leads on paper, and let his body sag against the plush office chair. This place was…strange. Smells, sounds, scenes like something out of the Playboy mansion. Or a bad B movie. Not that he had been privy to anything that went on behind closed doors, but the way the employees here studied him, made him feel truly like some voyeur in their realm.

It was indeed another world, one that was as foreign to him as--

His head jerked up at the sound of the door opening, expecting Heather, but was surprised to see a very scantily clad woman entering silently.

"May I help you?" he asked.

The woman in question sizzled with electricity, the very air popping as she moved into the space between them. Her entire outfit was sheer, leaving nothing to the imagination, from her voluptuous breasts to her other attributes. Only incredibly long vinyl boots truly covered flesh.

He didn't know if the rest of his body flushed as warmly as his cheeks did. He cleared his throat uncomfortably. Not that women didn't hit on him, they did, but it usually wasn't so blatant.

Different rules for an environment based on freedom of every expression. He knew Warrick would give him a hard time about his stuttered silence.

"I'm Bridget, Lady Heather's assistant."

As if that explained everything since all the woman did was stand attentive. Nick found his voice. "Is there something you needed, Bridget?"

Her jet black hair was pulled back showing off high cheekbones, green eyes highlighted by painted shadows. He trained his gaze at those eyes, the makeup much more deliberate in shades and layers, like one of those stage acts in Vegas.

"Lady Heather wanted me to see if you needed anything. Drink or food. We can get take out."

He wasn't really hungry; the idea of food was appealing, but he wasn't sure how much more time he'd log in tonight. The blacks and reds of the room were beginning to imprint their color into everything he visualized and it was having a subdued impact on his thoughts.

So caught up in them in fact, he had not taken notice of the assistant's entrance and her close proximity. Cherries and lilac shampoo filled his nasal passages; her painted toenails caught his attention.

Accented by toe rings. Huh.

"So, you're a scientist."

His eyes went up the length of long legs, skipped past other things and found a nice freckle not hidden by pale powder to stare at. "Yes."

"And you study death."

Her voice was smooth, like honey, and the back part of his brain sent all kinds of warnings through his nervous system. Checking his libido at the door was not doing the trick. It had found its path right back to him.

"In a way."

Distraction. That's what he needed. He looked beyond her body, at the door, for anyone else. Her eyelashes had glitter caught between tiny hairs.

"Must be dangerous."

His gut clenched, skin ran fever hot.

"I just collect and interpret evidence." The lining of his throat felt raw.

Fishnet flexed, and fighting his instincts was becoming a lost cause as the room swelled with animal needs.

"You pack heat?"

His rising body heat froze to sub-arctic temperatures. As those words grounded him to reality, the artificial assault to his senses dug fortified trenches.

Her teeth were ultra white, brilliant. Too many peroxide treatments. Breath like mint mouthwash. An employee looking for a job and his drive finally fell back into neutral.

"I'm working, maybe you should---

Bridget sauntered over, practically on top of him. "I like law enforcement guys, so...on edge."

A hand reached for his belt sliding over his hip, and he grabbed it, "Um, excuse me."

Her eyes danced with amusement. "Just wanted to see your gun," and smiled way too sweetly.

He stood up now, towering over her, blocking any further advancement. "Don't have one on me now."

The assistant bent down to his ear, giggling, hand still trying to wrestle out of his. "I won't pull the trigger, I promise." She checked out the leather that encircled his waist. "You really don't have one. What if some big scary man comes here, and you need to use it?" she cooed, her hand now free and tracing heat along his inner thigh.

"I don't carry one now," he gritted out, trying to rein in waning control, fighting back memories ignited by all of her seductive taunting. "Why don't you go back to work? I don't think your boss would like----"

"Bridget!"

He backed away at the fierceness of that tone and the woman who had wanted down his pants scurried away from him like he had the plague.

"Yes, madam."

"You may go back to your duties out front, unless our guest requested some late dinner."

"Yes, Lady Heather." The assistant scrambled away quickly.

"And, Bridget?"

The employee glanced over hesitantly.

"We will discuss this later."

The assistant grew pale and Nick felt his pulse quicken at the effect the domain's boss had over her employees.

"You may go."

The woman kept her head bowed and took out down the hall. The mistress casually entered her office.

Nick didn't sit back down, not with those eyes upon him. The air still crackled with a new, unstable energy. The pulse points of his body became even more overloaded with just the presence of the Domain's leader.

"Everything all right here?" Heather inquired, posture quite relaxed. So opposite of how he felt.

His tongue worked finally. "Yes, yes, things are all good."

The mistress remained long enough to notice his bobble.

"Very well."

The overseer of the domain left without another word, her entrance and retreat so fast, so powerful, he wasn't sure what the hell just happened.

Nick's leg felt ready to collapse so he fell heavily back into his seat. He sat there, no attempt to go back over his progress, his attention elsewhere.

His hand sought out his holster, knowing that there wasn't one there.

_"Ever fire your gun before, Mr. Crime Scene Guy?"_

He buried his head into his hands and held it back---held it all.

The file folders went suddenly flying across the desk and, for once, he didn't pay his increasingly chaotic state of mind much thought.


	4. Chapter 4

She was used to having someone in one of her fantasy rooms; it was when it was empty that she worried.

The "Cave" was a popular dungeon room frequented by many major clients. The heavy dank air sent chills down to the marrow of every bone. Her eyes roamed every handpicked chain that hung from the ceiling, specialty shackles that protruded from the floor. The harsh steel could leave marks unlike fine leather, but then that wasn't the point in here. Replicated medieval weapons, masks, blindfolds, gags; all hung ominously from the carved stone walls. No need for fake, painted over foam; her clients deserved to hear every echo of their moans and screams. Nothing like the satisfying sound of leather to bare skin in here.

Four solid minutes devoted to the heavy gate, every unoiled hinge silenced by patient hands; inch by inch it bent back to rest closed without its rusty creak. Voyeurism was not her forte, though she would not deny her curiosity. Her motivations were thinly veiled.

He held his Maglite like a fine instrument, sweeping the illumination along the opposite wall, checking the highest points from a stepladder. His body twisted upwards and over, finding and achieving balance.

The CSI supported his weight heavily on his right leg, the other one used tentatively. After several minutes he descended the ladder, grunting once. When he stood and all his weight was added to both limbs, he limped gingerly for a few moments, trying to shake off obvious pain, his hobbling halting when he saw her standing there.

"Lady Heather," he addressed, smoothing out his T-shirt, and knocking any dust from his snug jeans.

"Nick. I don't want to hurry you. Just wanted to know the time frame of your occupancy in here."

She curled her fingers around one of the links of the larger set of chains, tugging on the heavy weight while he stepped closer to her, his brown eyes staring at the metal rings.

"I just finished."

He rested white latex-covered hands on both hips, the color contrasting vividly with the dark denim. Powder residue glowed like fluorescence stretched over arched fingers. A man who wore latex on a regular basis and didn't even understand the erotic values.

Such a shame.

"And what did you find?" she asked, separating pleasant thoughts from business.

Nick's eyes lowered as he breathed through his nostrils. "Nothing. No place that a camera of any sort could have filmed anything inside here. No windows, no see-through panels. Also, you can't open that heavy gate without creating a loud noise, enough of a one to distract someone no matter what was going on."

Heather leaned against the twists of metal, letting it dig under her chin just enough, the rest held across her chest tightly enough to lean her body weight over it. "This room won't divulge its secrets."

She could smell fresh perspiration, the adrenal glands kicking into overdrive, tiny beads building between his shoulder blades, along the grooves of his throat and neck. The word smoldering did not do justice to the way his pupils dilated. If she didn't know better, Nick was holding his breath not to give away the new spike in thrill he was experiencing.

"Couldn't find anything in the doctor's office either," he ground out, voice smoky and thick.

The chain grew tauter over her body, held firmly by her left hand, the right one stretching lazily over the higher links, chin resting along the middle. "What did you think of that room? Very authentic. Any number of physician or nurse fantasies at your disposal."

"Sterile exam tables and being poked and prodded is not my kind of turn on," he drawled.

The metal chafed her skin. "Perhaps another environment could make you unleash all those impulses. "

"And here I thought it was about who you were with," he retorted.

She could easily see the outlines of his pectorals though the shirt molded to his body with increased sweat, and the strain of muscle. His right latex-covered hand gripped a chain to hold him still, or keep him at bay she couldn't decide. The vein on the side of his forehead beat rapidly beneath the skin. Those synthetic rubber hands a beacon hard to ignore.

"Of course, we believe in a healthy environment. Even all the instruments are sanitized after every use." The Estée Lauder Blackberry on her lips was sticky as she parted them to speak.

His grip grew tighter over the link of chain, the plastic ready to tear between his straining palms. "I don't think there are any photos. This is about simple access to information."

"I don't want to start accusing my employees without any facts." Her fingers danced down the steel, bringing the chain back to the center of gravity, hanging vertical to her body.

Nick released his as well, giving it an arbitrary glance. He slowly peeled off his gloves, the smacking of thin plastic reverberating inside the walls. He carefully pulled the other one off, balling them up in his hands. "I don't have anything physical, just conjecture. I need the actual blackmail letters...any of them."

"Then I'll get you one."

He opened his mouth, but the clanking commotion of the gate being flung open broke them off.

Heather faced the intrusion to their conversation as one of her employees entered and froze mid step when it was obvious the room was occupied by the Domain's leader and her guest.

"Excuse me, Mistress, I wasn't aware this was in use," one of her masters apologized, head bowing before her.

Even with the black leather mask concealing his face and the lack of clothes except for straps that criss-crossed his massive hairless chest, and tight vinyl pants, she could identify any of her employees no matter what form of dress.

"It will be ready for your appointments in a little bit. I arranged for your clients to meet later."

The zipper hid the man's mouth, but Heather knew a rigid jaw. Two alpha males in the room were a catalyst for tension, one that she avoided unless desired by the other occupant. The Mistress didn't need to turn around to sense Nick had moved closer, a change in his breathing made her ears perk before the she heard the sound of his boots.

Solid muscles bulked up with effort, eyes challenging between the slits giving sight.  
"Yes, Mistress."

Her air passages expanded with the scent of a lingering aftershave that she admired, as the criminalist was beside her.

"You may go now," she instructed.

Her sharp tone broke the stare down as the other man nodded hastily again. "Thank you, Mistress."

The room groaned in relief when they were left alone again. She turned her head, face inches from his. "You really should channel all that passion into something more productive." Heather tilted her head to watch the lovely vein pulse away faster.

"Who was that?" Nick inquired, his eyes still watching the door.

"Thomas. He's a real sweetheart under all that."

Her guest crossed his arms, "Not much he wasn't hidin'."

Heather turned to him fully. "We all conceal something."

He didn't bite, instead began a hasty retreat. All his posturing had a noticeable effect on the lingering pain he unsuccessfully tried to hide.

"You might want to stretch those leg muscles when you wake up and before long periods of use. Ice at night, heat in the morning will help with the healing process."

Nick dragged his stubborn left leg as he walked away from her.

She kept from reaching out until he was ready to accept it. He turned around in the doorway. "Call me, if you get anything I can examine."

Heather felt a jolt so startling that she closed the distance in three quick strides. They gazed eye to eye. "You might want to start with this," the mistress snapped, finger like a dagger to his breastbone, the pumping muscle beneath pounding inside his chest.

"I stopped looking with that back in an alley," he whispered, voice strained and brittle.

Her chest ached, stifling a need to touch the hot skin of his cheeks. "Don't ever turn your back on that. Can't you feel it, the pressure ready to burst wide open from all that suppression? All those barricades impede your very nature. Passion, vigor, arousal, all fueled by what's in there."

His face faltered but the dam held despite fissures, tiny swallows of his throat and a shaking body. "I'm sorry, but I can't."

She forced her arm to reach out, but he was gone. For once she wasn't sure about something...about some_one_ and did not follow.

* * *

A/N:

Thanks to those are are still following this romp in another direction. Sometimes you just need to have some fun. Though now based on GE's comment/joke recently..it brought a smile to my lips.


	5. Chapter 5

He was back again, two days later. Minus the black-T-shirt, replaced by Lycra of deep blue, and comfy dark slacks. This time he carried a black leather kit, similar to a toolbox. He wasn't 'on the job' per se. That didn't keep him from owning spare supplies, wasn't like he didn't buy half of them out of his own pocket. City didn't foot the bill all the time.

The receptionist for the Domain kept Nick waiting, as usual, until he was permitted to go further into the house. Star was her pet name, with striking Asian features and black and white shaded tattoos covering up every inch of skin. Bone pins held her hair in a bun, glitter makeup like he saw in those cartoons he caught Archie viewing all over her beautiful pale face. Freaky looking and stunning at the same time, she was soft spoken as could be.

She engaged him in small talk, minus any flirting, a real pro. Nick nodded appropriately, trying to ignore a much deeper ache than ever before. This 'moonlighting' kept him on his toes, and off his regular schedule of Vicodin and the contents of other pretty brown bottles. Kept him away from PT appointments that he normally canceled anyway.

Until now, when it felt like something was gnawing away inside the muscle, his leg one throbbing mass of angry nerve endings. Could check his heart rate by the constant fiery flares. He was due for another dosage, but forewent it when the call came--and like any good worker he showed up to do what was required of him. Randomly he thought about telling Grissom whom he was helping, but then again, it was hard enough to dodge the daily calls and attempted visits to his home by people from the lab.

He politely nodded and added a few "Uh-huhs", ears never getting used to the occasional scream from a hidden room. The staff here was very used to it but he tensed up every time he heard one.

The monstrous steps behind him were not that of his employer, and he kept surprisingly cool when a young looking Arnold Schwarzenegger made a beeline for the desk. A perfect Aryan specimen, complete with closely trimmed blond hair and razor sharp steel blue eyes.

"Good evening," the Giant addressed him—no mistaking it…he was very personable.

"How's it going?" It wasn't not meant to be a real hello.

"I see you around her a lot. You like it here?" Arnold Jr. inquired with a sweet grin despite a jaw that could probably chew up and spit out car parts.

Star shot him amused looks and his brain picked this time to get dumb. He didn't say a damn thing, looking kind of stunned.

The beast-man rested his elbow on the desk, eyes never off his face. "You bring your own tools?"

Nick looked down at his kit and his cheeks burned, knowing exactly what it looked like. "They're---th---I need them for work."

Nope wrong words, because Mr. Friendly almost glowed with excitement. "You going to use them tonight?"

Somehow he couldn't find the right words to respond and his companion was checking him out quite openly and some of that happy-dumb like quality was replaced by a glint in the man's eyes. _That_ expression, Nick recognized right away. Subconsciously he backed one step away as the giant matched it.

Right now all he could see was another leather-clad gimp, growling and wielding a whip, shouting in German.

"Gunter, you are required in the Asylum."

Nick watched strict obedience as the giant turned attentively.

Lady Heather issued an order and her employee acquiesced quickly, almost scrambling as much as his massive size could handle. She stood there, radiating power, and Nick quickly turned on the filter to his brain before he said something stupid.

The low lighting of the lobby caught the long, thick strands of her hair at just the right angle, deep black, with highlights of red, flickering.

"Let's go to my office."

Nick obeyed automatically, the radiating pain momentarily forgotten as he disappeared behind her into the confines of the Domain.

Before any real greeting plastic was shoved into his hands, her black gloved ones titillating his skin as they met.

He scanned the zip-locked baggie, inside an obvious extortion letter; who knew how Heather got in possession of it. Nick didn't need to speak, examining the document in interest, not caring too much what was typed inside it, but at what might be-if anything- left smeared on the outside.

Finally something worth inspection, no matter how futile.

"Seems you've sparked a few people's interest here." The Mistress spoke casually.

He smiled, embarrassed. "Humph."

It was impossible not to look over at her as Heather spoke, some invisible lure he was fascinated by, like a child wanting to strike a hornet's nest with a stick. Feeling invincible and in danger at the same time.

She beamed experience, old wisdom. "Gunter has inquired about your availability as have some other staff members," she said, tilting her head, waiting.

He studied the evidence instead. "You have any idea how many people handled this?"

"As far as I know, just the client and the blackmailer." Her fingers brushed over his knuckles. "I wore gloves to prevent any contamination."

He ignored the allure of soft pelt. "I'm going to need comparisons."

"From the list of people you narrowed down," Heather reaffirmed.

He shrugged. "It's what you contracted me to do. I'd stick to the three who have access to your office, but adding a few others would help hide your true suspicions "

"You have something I could use?" she asked.

He pulled out blank ID cards and an inkpad. If this were a normal case, he'd do every exemplifier himself, but these were her people.

Nick couldn't keep that lump in his throat down when he handed off the needed supplies, leather met skin again, and tiny bursts were telegraphed down the wires of his body. No matter how recent that cold shower and mental cleansing of distracting thoughts, being inside this place tempted him every minute.

"What else is in your black bag?"

He smirked at the obvious bait, but didn't pass up the opportunity to show off a tiny bit. He fished out a pair of gloves, filling in the latex with his hands, then several small jars of powders, brushes, tweezers, and a few random bottles. With the flair of a magician, he wowed his audience of one with the scientific attributes of each chemical and their properties.

"This is a fluorescence used to detect blood." Nick twirled the spray container as he pulled out his ALS and goggles.

"You use the color tint of the goggles to see a change in pattern?"

"Yeah. The orange of the lens picks up the molecules of the iron," he explained eagerly.

She smiled, prodding. "And if there isn't anything, then you don't see anything."

Nick bobbled his head, laughing. "Just a weird smear from the spray."

"Why did you bring that here?"

Nick put the goggles back in his bag, "Just part of my backup kit. No worries. This is only a fraction of what I normally carry since this isn't my official one." Nick took the plastic encased letter and set it down on her desk. "Now here's the most important item in my kit," and with a spark in his eyes, rummaged inside, drawing eye contact.

"No CSI should be without this modern marvel." He watched her move closer in anticipation as he retrieved a magnifying glass from his kit.

Nick grinned when Heather arched an eyebrow, proud his theatrics drew her in.

"As I said before. Every good detective will find a way to find his clues." She gathered everything to collect the prints of her employees, her lips curled into a devilish smile.

Nick settled down behind her desk, pulling the light forward for him to study the letter. "I'll see if I can retrieve anything useful. You didn't by chance---"

Lady Heather slid another zip-locked bag over the expanse, inside a large piece of packing tape. "My client's print to rule out his on the letter and envelope."

Nick was impressed. "Good. Now if you only had a mini DNA lab, I could check for saliva."

"The envelope is self adhesive."

He had walked right into that one, since he hadn't really inspected his only evidence yet. He raised his eyebrows as she hovered in the doorway. Trying to regain his lost pride he stared in false annoyance.

"That guy's name is really Gunter?"

The Mistress saw right through his ploy. "No, but I'll let him know you inquired," and she left before he could raise his voice in protest.

* * *

These were not ideal circumstances; wrong work situation, lousy primitive conditions. Nick carefully sprayed ninhydrin on the envelope and watched as the chemical reacted to the amino acids on the paper, revealing smears and smudges galore. Scanning with his magnifying glass he strained to find anything latent to use. Nothing but a muddied surface. Too much sloppy handling before a sterile environment.

Rubbing at his eyes, readjusting a numb ass and stiff legs, he could feel the air leaking out of any hope. Nick sighed heavily and moved on to the actual letter. The threatening words were in his viewfinder before he took several shots of them. His dust mask covered his mouth and nose again, a sheen of chemical misted over the letter, and he waited... and hoped.

Nick felt a spike in adrenaline as a few partials and even several full prints emerged on the pressed paper. Nodding, encouraged, he pulled the mask down to hang over his shirt, much like a surgeon, and searched for a copier. He needed to run a few extras before taking tape lifts and beginning the basics of preserving the prints for examination later. He stood up, his camera beeping at him, he glanced down and noted the tiny bit or memory left. His tongue rolling along the inside of his mouth, he snapped one more picture of the note, using up the last bit so he could change out cards.

Still at a loss for a copier, he searched the office with no luck and took the letter into the hall with him over towards reception. He dodged an angry looking nun, not wanting to even dare think about what type of role-play that involved and headed towards reception.

Star glanced up at him, some of her perkiness absent.

"Is there a copier here?" he asked, testing the icier waters he detected.

The seriously pissed off woman glared at him, pointing a pencil in the direction behind her. Nick gave her his best smile and went over, keeping the paper inside a thin piece of plastic and pressing the start key. He hummed a tune, trying to ignore the glare of death sent his way.

Nick frowned a little, but retrieved his copies and a long leg jutted out to connect to the wall, blocking his path. Star smacked her gum loudly, looking all the world like an enraged Geisha and not the erotically hot babe of anime covers.

"I don't like ink to stain my fingers. Inject it in my pores, create arts of work on my flesh, but this crap doesn't even come off with steaming hot water and Lava soap," she growled.

He wet his lips, flustered for just a moment over such an outrage over messy hands; then again maybe everyone had their tics. "We need to rule you out. Use rubbing alcohol- it'll get most of it off, and now you can tell people you were once under investigation, got to be a turn on for someone," he drawled acting very serious.

The receptionist rolled her chair back, letting him pass. "I bet that sweet charm gets you out of a lot of jams."

Nick stifled a laugh. "Yes ma'am, it does."

He re-entered the hallway relieved not to run into any more employees in between acts. Exhaling heavily he returned to Heather's office and shut the door. His brow crinkled as he reached for a light switch. Suddenly a thick arm wrapped around his throat like a vice, as someone throttled him in a fierce chokehold.

Papers and plastic fell to the floor, his voice stifled by the pressure to his larynx. Nick's hands dug into flesh and fought to wrestle the restraint over his windpipe. The criminalist bucked like a wild bull, twisting and straining. Rock solid muscle stood frozen like a giant slab of meat, Nick's struggles just mere distractions.

He was all about oxygen, losing it fast, face puffing red, tiny noises escaped as his mouth sought out air. Gasping, his heart pumped double time, slamming against his chest. Nick stooped over just as his attacker tried to lift him off his feet to try to make quick work of him.

His vision swam, tinged with emerging blackness and Nick kicked with his feet, hooking his good leg behind that of the perp's tree trunk and successfully lashed out enough to trip. Both sprawled to the floor forwards, both set of legs crumbling from the uneven distribution of weight. Nick's mouth hung open, gasping, when lancing pain ripped through his thigh.

Whatever air left in his lungs was forced out in an 'ooofff' as he landed on his arm, panting, colors returning to normal. Nick scurried away like a crab, placing distance between him and his assailant. Still puffing away, desperately drawing in oxygen, he grunted and growled, staggering to his feet as the suspect got to his, ready to charge at him again.

'Beat back the pain, before you get pummeled' he told his body.

He caught a look at his attacker, beefcake all in black, complete with nifty S&M leather mask, just like every other on-the-clock employee that roamed around here. Casual attire for around this place. Great. Gimp Man wasn't even breathing heavy as he simply stalked over, not intimidated by the shorter, leaner CSI. Nick braced himself; he wasn't some wannabe pro wrestler, but he could stand his ground.

Gimp Man took a massive swing. If the fist had actually made contact, it might have broken his jaw, but instead Nick ducked and went for the guy's midsection, stinging knuckles the only result. It was like decking a wall, and he moved in time to prevent some real damage to his face, clocking the suspect with a left hook, fingers popping with contact.

Okay time to face facts. It was still manly to scream and get help when faced with some reject from a Quentin Tarantino movie.

Nick's yell was cut off when Gimp Man took two fistfuls of shirt, picked him up and tossed him over the desk. All of his equipment toppled on top of him adding insult to injury, one bottle smacking him in the face. Hearing massive clomping, Nick grabbed the first thing he found- the container of solution that beaned him. Fingers sprayed Fluorescein into the man's costume mask looming over him. The giant hissed and clawed at his face, giving Nick enough time to hobble to his feet, his left leg reminding him that it had missed two weeks of serious physical therapy.

Making a retreat, the door so close, the CSI gritted his teeth over the searing fire in his leg, right before a boot connected hard behind his injured left limb. Somehow the perp had honed in on his old wound.

He couldn't scream, vocal cords stunned by the agony. Instinct took over, curling himself up, hands trying to relieve the damaged leg. His blood had not been spilled, but it was as if his attacker could smell it, casually walking over. The larger man kicked hard leather into his crippled thigh, once, twice, then a final savage time.

Gimp Man let him writhe on the floor, eyes squeezed shut, moisture leaking trails down his cheeks. All the pain, every fiber of his being stolen by shock, a throbbing sending him right back to that night. The wild beating drum that his hands are unable to stop. Nick swore he could feel the blood pumping out like it did that in that alley.

"_Stokes! Goddammit, you hang on, you hear me!" Cavaliere shouted in his face. _

It feels like an elephant sitting on his chest, breath a fleeting concept. His right hand permanently attached to the wound in his thigh, warm blood leaking out between numbing fingers. Jaggedly ripped open flesh, femur that's cracked and he doesn't know it... because all Nick understands is an icy cold that's making him tremble and jerk on the harsh, sticky ground.

Cavaliere's pants are stained crimson, knees soaked by the growing pool seeping into the trash Nick's laying on. He tried to lift his left hand, forgotten it's intertwined in the detective's. Who knew Chris could look so stricken?

"Stay with me, man! Come on, look at me, Stokes!"

His hand is squeezed hard. Nick doesn't see that the detective's other hand is occupied, thumb and fingers plugging the wound hemorrhaging massive amounts of blood.

"W—where's...the...k-kid?" he grunts out, light headed, and queasy, very very close to puking all over himself. The aroma of Chinese food from that takeout place screwing with his increased nausea.

"Don't worry about that punk!" Cavaliere hisses, and that makes him very nervous.

Last thing he recalled before his leg took in lead was the scared shitless, young gangbanger holding the detective's own gun to Chris's head, threatening to pull the trigger. Nick's own Glock in his hand as soon as he turned the corner giving chase after the both of them.

What the Hell happened? He can't move his head, can't look to see where the suspect is now, too many cops crowding around, gazing at him intently.

He hears someone. Cavaliere? Calling his name.

Then something about a tourniquet.

Nick is too cold now, pain and fear, head exploding as he coughs, still struggling for air. Then he notices a commotion, and something laced around the damn mess that was his thigh.

Someone is telling him that it's going to hurt, and before he passes out, letting the numbness reach his brain, he screams and everything went black.

A noise brought him back to the present, same pain, same agony in his leg. Gimp Man bumbled around, and out of the corner of his eye, Nick watched as the print copies and the original letter were shoved into the guy's pocket.

'So that's what this was about.' Before he could get the nerve endings to talk to his brain, Gimp Man bent over his prone form.

"Say goodnight."

A meaty leather glove backhanded him so hard that Nick was unconscious before his head snapped back into place.

* * *


	6. Chapter 6

The candles melted fine lines of wax, a deep red pooling into artistic swirls. A sulfur odor lingered, and a wasted matchstick wilted between her fingertips. Eyes mesmerized by the colors of flame, halos glowed around all five burning sticks. Heather knew the hypnotizing power of the contrasts. Dark blue at the base, sizzling the wick away, deep brown, oranges, then running white hot at the tip.

If she ran her hand through the top, it could singe fingers, blister skin, but a fraction of an inch lower? Cool and harmless.

Like her feelings: hot and cold, Zen eclipsed by fiery anger. All equally balanced, and it took staring mindlessly at harmonizing acts of nature and man to feel at any kind of equilibrium. Wanting to let loose the heat of outrage, but hone in on what is best for the situation... To remain calm, controlled.

Heather rubbed at her amulet; the smooth obsidian grounded inner demons at bay. She allowed her eyelids to drift closed, but snapped open at the sound behind her. Quietly she rose, silently wandering over. Normally the sight of an attractive man, cocooned and unaware between dark silk bed sheets would encourage a repeat performance of whatever led to exhausted sleep.

This time, grim reality made her wait and with an all new type of anticipation. The Mistress sat intently in the chair next to her guest, low noises an indication that he had finally found his way back.

The brown of his eyes appeared between lids that struggled to stay open. Once they finally did, Nick's face screwed up in pain, and he groaned, testing out his voice.

She didn't want to startle him, dealing as he was with the sensation of waking up in a strange environment, coupled with a beat up body. So she waited, until it seemed he was a bit more alert, gauging by the furrowed brow and his instant need to sit up.

"Why don't you just lay there a moment, get acclimated," she reasoned. Cool, soft, but greatly relieved.

"Where the Hell am I?" he snapped, more pissed off then she would have thought.

He pushed himself more upright, despite the agony it had to cost. Sucking in a raspy breath, he slumped flat on his back, pupils darting wildly around the room.

Her hand rested on a tense shoulder, maintaining physical contact, grounding him in reality. It took only a moment for that realization to thankfully gleam back in animal-like eyes; wild, and defensive. Slowly his breathing evened out, and Heather never broke the connection as the injured man settled back down.

"You're in the Domain. I'm the only one here."

The panic died down and self-analysis settled in. Gingerly this time, he took stock of himself; fingers tentatively probed the bruise across the right side of his cheek with a slight hiss. Nick shook his hand, fingers only slightly swollen. Then the hard part... she could tell. His ever methodical adjustment, limbs sliding under the silk as his stiff muscles were stretched out and tested.

"Fuck me!" he growled.

"I don't think you'd be up for it now," Heather responded lightly.

Only smile to spread over her face in the past two hours despite his glare. Deep down inside she knew he appreciated the tension breaker.

His hand reached down for what's a mass of ugly black and blue, old surgery scars and obvious pulsating pain.

"It needs to be iced again," she instructed, standing and moving to the confines of her room. Thank goodness for the need for ice cubes at other times, and she brought back a frozen pack from a mini fridge. By the time of her return, Nick peeked between the sheets, eyebrow arched accusingly.

"Where are my pants?" Hands rested heavily, black sheet pulled up to his midsection.

Fingers crunched the ice pack. "Hanging in my closet."

His face reflected indignantly.

She held out the ice pack as a truce, and Nick took it, unfolding the blanket back to reveal his swollen leg, his face a grimace. A moment of hesitancy and he placed the numbing agent over the old wound, his jaw set, left hand pounding the mattress when it made contact.

After a few choice words, the cold compress rested on his thigh, and the CSI draped the sheet back over to prevent the rest of him from shivering from the added coldness.

"How did I get here?"

Heather's body relaxed, a semi-normal conversation and a much-needed anchor. "Gunter brought you here on my instruction."

The alarm and humiliation was as palpable as his groans. His expression a mix of wanting to know _how that happened_ and pleading not to ever know the exact details.

"I couldn't lift you up several flights of stairs and in here. I knew he would be careful." She wouldn't... couldn't elaborate about those tense few minutes after finding him.

The flames of her candles were too far away, and the mounting ramifications threatened her silent stability. Heather had to reel it all in for the sake of her guest. Rage unfiltered and full of primitive spite.

Her castle, the very essence of trust, violated, but this---this deed of violence and hate was not only an act of venom against this man, but a knife to her own soul. Someone dared to violate all that she held holy, and now the escalation was beyond what she ever imagined. The guilt was nothing compared to the desire for vengeance.

Not only for the man she brought into her world, but for the ideals of trust and acceptance so brutally spat upon. Feeling selfish, Heather battled the need to channel.

It was a struggle of instinct. Impulses of an insatiable need, a hand drifted towards his jaw. Her fingers traced his discolored cheek, her face drifting towards his paler one. God, she wanted to press her lips to his, let the charge ignite between them. As the moisture of his mouth drew closer, Heather plunged past willing lips to whisper in his ear.

"Did you see who did this?"

She heard his heart pound in the silence of the room, a rattle in his breath. "No, his face was hidden by one of those masks."

He was pissed. At himself, at the asshole who sought out a weak point and exploited it like hell. His tight voice told the tale. Nick Stokes was very much a man not of the type to take getting brought down by a coward who won't show his face.

"I need to get up," he rallied, but not too fast she thought.

"Dr. Gibbons says you need to rest that leg."

Nick's face reflected fire. "Doctor who?"

She leaned way too close. The old faded T-shirt he'd been changed into, begging to be ripped apart by her needy hands. Her right one really invading his personal space, running through his messed up hair. "One of my clients was here for other reasons. He checked you out before you were moved, and then okayed your transfer here to rest."

Angry, embarrassed, hard to tell. "Is he the one who..." Nick indicated to his half state of dress.

"Yes. I thought you'd prefer this to an ER or police---"

Despite a flushed red complexion now, the CSI watched her smooth out errand tufts of dark hair. "Yea, enough hospitals. And NO, definitely not the police...I don't... I just can't."

Heather was nearly all the way in the bed with him, and she really doubted it would take much to remove the rest of his clothes, and not much for him to return the favor. She jostled his leg and his face pinched up again. Whatever spell was cast over them broke. The Mistress blinked heavily, snapping out of the primal hold her desires had ensnared her in.

Backtracking, her mind recalled why her guard was down, and the boiling waters burned hot. "I could make you some tea to help you sleep some more." She used her knee to force her body away, face flushed as much as his.

He snagged her hand, using it to pull him into a painful upright position. "I don't want any tea." His eyes slits, and now he ate up the atmosphere of anger that her appetite has triggered.

"I don't have any painkillers and the swelling needs to go down before you put any weight back on it." It's a role reversal, her composure centering her energy, his freewheeling.

Nick slung back the covers, ice pack held to his thigh with one hand, and with an act of pure determination, face a sketch of pain, both legs swung over to touch the floor.

The choice was to allow him to topple over flat on his face or lend aid, so despite not wanting it Heather burdened an arm over her shoulder, another around his waist as he wobbled after placing weight on his feet.

"Where are we going?" she asked, knowing the only thing forefront in his mind was the need to be independent.

"The guy took the letter and my copies," he grunted, his weight dragging her dangerously towards the hard wooden floor, but he hobbled fairly well.

"I know." Her hands strayed accidentally around his waistband, thumb sliding along an exposed hipbone.

"I still have my memory card from my camera. I want to run a comparison." His left leg dead, dragging like a rag doll's, and his fight nearly spent.

Heather was a strong capable woman, and got him to a chair by a small office desk. Huffing and color drained to a sweaty waxen pallor, Nick gamely slumped into it, trying to fight for breath. Ice pack still pressed firmly by numb fingers that probably had no other choice. The mistress stepped back, ignoring what she could do to him in that chair, clad only in boxers and tee.

"I'll get the memory card out of your slacks." Heather smoothed out the wrinkle in her rayon dress as she walked to the far end of her bedroom.

"You could bring 'em here, ya know."

She returned with a pair of sweats and tossed them at him instead. "Easier to dress into."

He pulled them over calves, then thighs.

"I didn't think you were a boxers kind of guy. You struck me as a briefs man, or nothing."

Nick leaned against the desk, black sweatpants and a deep green worn tee snugged nicely over his body. "Hanes three-pack of gray boxer briefs are on sale all the time. Though, I've been in need of something easier to slip on."

"Never nude?" Heather slipped fully back into control mode.

The criminalist gave it serious thought. "It could get pretty hot back in Dallas."

Heather took her time walking over, the folds of her dress the only sound of movement. Watching him with interest, she handed him the memory card. "The rest of your stuff is in my safe. I'll grab it and another fresh ice pack."

His face was half obscured by shadows, but he nodded. Heather went into her walk in closet, mind filled with images of the golden tanned skin of the Texan on his back among the dark silk sheets of her bed. Unclothed except for his latex gloves. The firm, sculpted muscles of his body waiting for the exploration of every groove and tendon by her lips.

Normal never seemed so alluring.


	7. Chapter 7

He didn't know what he was doing. A case…was it a case? A favor maybe. It had spiraled into dangerous territory...a man had assaulted him to get evidence...he HAD evidence or what he thought was some. He adjusted the view screen of his digital camera, zooming in on the last minute shot of the letter when his memory stick had run out of room. He didn't ask her why there was an expensive laptop in her bedroom, his mind not wanting to go there for many reasons. At the moment he's glad, and offered up a prayer of thanks that Photoshop had been installed. He extracted the image, glistening with several fingerprints—-one of which had to belong to Gimp Man.

Nick was glad that he didn't require a paper copy, not sure how the Mistress would take his refusal to allow her to wander around her own domain, a sacred place to find a printer.

He knew what it was like to feel the sanctity of something so loved to be tainted.

Yet there it was, that nagging doubt that this was all wrong. The police should be involved, not just because of the attack, but things had jumped... escalation to assault on a member of the LVPD, even if not in an official capacity. It meant that any members of the domain could be in danger, and didn't that demand that he do the legal thing?

Her long locks of hair tickled the nape of his neck and Nick could feel a warm breath that went right down his spine and into other sensitive areas. Heather peered over him, fascinated by his work, keeping a firm hand in the action. Every question softly spoken, gentle waves of air against his earlobe, sending sparks tingling down nerve endings. He would have been glad for the sweatpants if it weren't for the throbbing of his thigh.

It hurt... A lot. Like a dagger twisting the muscles and ripping them apart all over again. Except the deep ache seemed to be in time to his heartbeat, and every thud against his sternum just hammered the raw meat that was his thigh. Sweat built up in his hair, one lone droplet after another beading and dripping down his sideburns. The new frosty ice pack numbed flesh, but nothing more.

They made a good team; Heather held one sheet of prints against the LCD screen. The light under the paper helped to illuminate a job insanely difficult even for a specialty print expert. Nick strained through the magnifying lens, seeking traits in common, checking, and double checking, eyes aching.

"You know talking about what happened will help."

Her voice sent another ripple through his skin. "Not much to say. I think he just wanted me out long enough to grab the prints. Why he went for a chokehold at first."

The fine hairs along his neck bristled under her breath; he could feel her shift to his other side by the trail of moist heat from her exhalations.

"I'm talking about in the alley. Where you got hurt."

"Next set."

She switched printouts and his eyes sought the grooves and curves of similar patterns.

"I thought about calling someone... Your friend. Warrick, right?"

His hand adjusted the compress, the melting condensation soaked up by the material of the sweatpants. The cold seeped into the hairline fracture in the bone, filling in the still healing muscle and tendon. His eyes almost froze when a set of grooves looked so similar; he leaned forward, finger double clicking to enlarge the possible match even more.

"Your cell was turned off, so I switched it on. You had eight missed calls." Her lips made soft wet noises when she spoke.

The beating of his heart jumped and the war drum of the healed artery strengthened with the increased blood flow.

"They might want to know what happened," Heather's voice urged.

Physically poked and prodded, then when that wasn't enough visits by the review board.

Ice pack didn't have anything on Vicodin or Darvocet. Perspiration covering his chest, back, adding to the clamminess of his skin. The chills so reminiscent of that night sprawled out on old newspaper and broken beer bottles.

His heart accelerated, like his speeding footsteps into the alley. Caught off guard when the kid darted around the corner of the building, Chris Cavaliere cursing and giving chase.

Nick stared at the computer screen, inkblots and swirling blown up lines blurring together. His hand squeezed the mouse pad. Several marks in common.

"You're every bit a man, Nick." Her hands rested on his shoulders, ropes of tension shaking under her fingers.

He closed his eyes, hearing his harsh breathing, darting in and out of dark side streets, caught up by that fucking fence. Cavaliere scaled it fine, but his stupid boot got caught in the weave and he fell over it, twisting his ankle in the process. Slowed down, way behind the vanished bodies of the two men he was after.

Pain, the ice pack fell off, and his hand desperately tried to stave off the pain having cut off cold turkey from a couple weeks of pills.

It had been 18 hours without and still counting.

"Keeping it all inside doesn't prove anything, doesn't make you weak." Her voice… he just wanted to melt into it, drift away in its softness. Drown in something else.

He can't...he just unable to forgive.

_Have you ever fired that gun, Mr. Crime Scene guy?_

_Adrenaline pumping then, the kid had a fucking gun? What? He's maybe sixteen, but there's a gun on the detective, threatening, and a scrawny hand holding Cavaliere by the scruff of his shirt. The other man is petrified, at the other end of his department-issued Glock. The detective is a deer in headlights. Dependent on a test tube guy to save him...save his life._

_Nick's not sure, yeah, he's trained in firearms, and a good shot on a non-moving paper target. But this boy is whacked out and shouting and the CSI is all about standing his ground, trying to talk his way out of the situation._

He shook now and the tremble must have been a signal, because Heather wrapped an arm around the front of his chest, her chin buried into his shoulder telling him it was all right.

He fumed, _no, it's not at all._

"We all feel like we've wronged, Nick. I'm not about judgment, that's what this place stands for."

He can't stand it, her soft voice, a touch he so desperately wanted more out of. His breathing borderline ragged and Nick was unable to do it...not anymore.

"Stop it!" The CSI whirled around, chair knocked down, Lady Heather backing away, though with no fear whatsoever.

"Enough!" His twang thick, chest heaving. "You don't know at all!"

Heather didn't cower at his outburst, didn't look at him like some pathetic, scared animal. Her eyes steady, posture quite relaxed.

"What don't I know?" Heather stepped closer, hands on his shoulders, challenging.

Nick wrapped both of his hands over hers, chest constricted, hard to breathe when you're choking on spittle and fighting down little raw wounded sounds from escaping.

"I killed him." His voice cracked, floor reaching up to meet him.

Nick wasn't sure how he's even upright, one leg jelly, the other one useless and trying to bring him down. Like a blind man, arms flailed. He latched on to her, his face and voice muffled by fabric and skin.

"I fuckin' killed a boy. Shot some poor kid." The rest of his outcry was swallowed up by stuffy sinuses, a lump-filled throat and an inability to really catch his breath.

His world was all about ten seconds. The teen jerking the detective around, making a moving target. No clear shot, but the boy sniffed out Nick's hesitancy and brought the barrel to bear on him. A round squeezed off, and the CSI's reflexes simply took over.

Then it was all about screams, his and the boy's. Cavaliere's frantic shouts and a bleary world of blood loss, numbness and realization that a life was gone by his hands.

"Didn't know... didn't know..." It's all he can say to stay sane, the smell of fresh soap keeping him in the present.

Hands buried themselves in his hair, yanking parts of his worn shirt, one finally wrapped around his waist, because he's falling ---dropping to his knees. She held him close, slipping with him, and he has nowhere else to go. God-awful breakdown, because Nick Stokes is no one's fool, he just crumbled. Fell apart in so many ways.

Heather. He could feel her steady pulse along her neck; taste the salt of her skin, the scent and feel of bath oil. He nearly drowned in it all, blacking out and not caring anymore.

Nick settled down, the hitch to his throat subsided, eyes moist, but not a busted dam. And through it all a steady strong presence. Silent, but there.

"I didn't know he was dead 'til I woke up the next day." His voice was collected, so many things scrambled in his head for weeks now. "I---I couldn't see his body from the ground. Cavaliere never told me."

A delicate and soothing hand slipped under his shirt, rubbed at the sweat-slicked skin of his trembling back. Nick's body still quivered and the heat over goose flesh for some reason made him shiver even more.

"I---" He licked lips, "I see his shocked expression when I close my eyes, but only in my dreams. I didn't even know he had pulled the trigger until I was laid out on the ground." He couldn't dare lift up his face, still buried in moist rayon. "I pulled the trigger out of---it was just the muscle contraction of my fingers. From...from getting shot."

Another coarse guttural sound, it hurt so fucking much. "I think...I mean...I couldn't have---have done it."

The criminalist was silent now, confession over, reality of the here and now back. He would be a liar if he didn't admit that he's just too out of it to do anything about it now.

"Let's get off the floor."

It was the first time Heather spoke and Nick was motivated just enough to follow that command. Any longer and he'd never be able to draw enough energy into weary bones to move at all. Somehow, no real memory of it, he was back among silky smooth sheets, body melting into a firm, large mattress.

A broken down mule, that is how he felt; meek, and worn down from too many burdens. Deep down though, underneath all the hard, tough skin of his body was a new pulse, aware and hungry.

His eyes were at half-mast as he watched Heather tidy up the mess. One made when his mind bled all over her. He lay before her exposed, enthralled by her power, and maybe excited by it. She knew about it, deep in those eyes. The mistress sat at the edge of the bed and he surprised himself when not a word of protest even entered his mind when she simply tugged down his borrowed sweat pants, the bottoms slipped down and off his feet in no time at all.

Propped on lush pillows, he tensed just a little when her alluring fingers traced with utmost care the lines that carved up his thigh. A pointer finger traced an old, fiery incision, then the ragged circumference of a hole once held together by stitches and a prayer.

"Is there another scar on the other side?" She's fascinated in some way, he can tell.

"No. Slug nicked the femoral artery and bounced around after hitting the bone." His fingers curled into satin as her delicate touch outlined swollen muscle.

Her sensual touch felt like a feather, ostrich or down perhaps. A fingertip trailed the side of his thigh, under his kneecap, down to his toes.

His voice was drier than Vegas, the sensations enough to make him shudder. Suddenly the T-shirt was just one more layer of clothing he could do without.

Heather didn't say a damn word, all ten fingers digging into the arch of his foot. His body one single live wire as pressure points were applied. The rest of him shook as if her mouth was there instead of nimble fingers, sending even more impulses south. Insensible words, colors between his eyelids because yes, his eyes were squeezed shut, eyeballs nearly rolled into the back of his head as tendons and nerves collided and melted away. All the tension rolled off him like a double dose of Valium.

Blissful as a cloud, the pressure to the bottom of his foot so incredible, that it's one massive pulse of warmth and fuzziness and oh, God, pleasure. Not quite like the best oral sex, but it's borderline, body at a flash point.

Nick felt like the king of the clouds, head lolling to one side, face loose and mouth hung open dumbly. Sensation moved few inches lower and even between his toes were as malleable as taffy. Something though screamed at him, begged him not to let go like this no matter how much his beat up body tried to override his common sense.

"No," he mumbled. Heather did a slight twist with her thumb and he uncoiled like a worn spring... exactly how she wanted him.

_The print match_, his mind screamed before he went out like a light. All the pain, the emotion, the drain of his confession and aftermath of several swift kicks to his damaged soul. Nick fell asleep under the calculated touch of a woman who wanted to give him a little peace.


	8. Chapter 8

Heather knew all about energy points in the body; nerve bundles, chi and flow. The foot was the Mecca for all sensation. A flick of a wrist and pivot of a thumb… just the right way could send men instantly into orgasm. Redirecting energy flow into flooding the body with natural endorphins could relax all muscle tension and spasms. She was able to release Nick's physical pain harbored deeply in tissue and tendons.

There he lay in her bed, the sheets soaking up his scent, a tanned body within a sea of silky black. He was temptation, a dark haired beauty, inviting her hands to roam freely over toned muscles. The green T-shirt rode up enough for a peek at hard abs and a light trail of dark hair disappearing under his boxers.

Drinking in such serenity would have to wait, knowing that someone had defiled it all by greed and evil. Pure thoughts were a rare if not foreign notion here...but the Domain did welcome all with open arms. No judgment, no prejudice. It was devotion and honesty. Wasn't that pure in its own way?

Heather felt violated...tainted and she would not allow it to go on, or spread anymore. She pulled the sheet over the CSI, gently covering him from the chill and leaving him to much needed rest. With vigor she went to the laptop and inspected the last note card. She was not a scientist, but had a good eye. With a magnifying glass in one hand, she picked up the matching groove and ink pattern that Nick had found. The Mistress needed to finish what was started, verifying, she looked at the name attached to the card and the smoldering flames grew red hot.

Internal matters were always handled privately, Nick Stokes might not ever understand such things, but he was the key that lead to the perpetrator. Now Heather would take her pound of flesh for the both of them. She hooked up the Nikon to her computer, synced and transferred the photo to the memory card. Armed with proof, she headed into the halls of the Domain in search of her Judas.

* * *

Animals froze under any scrutiny, twitchy whiskers or ears, beady darting eyes so fast and nervous that a predator pounced and fed off of fear. Humans, they squirmed and babbled like idiots under pressure. When it came to danger, or self preservation there was little separating the instincts of either species.

Four legged or two, take away the fur and it revealed true skin, and there wasn't much difference at all.

Heather's calm calculated way was much more frightening and intimidating than any short-fused temper or screaming red-faced maniac. Silence was a far better weapon than any words.

"We matched your fingerprints to the letter." The owner of the Domain spoke so softly, the thundering heartbeat of the recipient could have easily swallowed up the words.

"I promise, Mistress, I don't know what you're talking about."

Heather didn't snap back or gesture madly. Her cold, lifeless voice was enough to send hairs on any neck on end. "Do you deny that these prints are yours?"

Pupils dilated and hands shook, scanning the physical evidence "I –I don't know anything about this stuff, so if you say these are my prints, then they are."

The air grew colder.

"B-but, I don't know how. I would never betray you, Mistress."

She shortened the distance between them, sucking in the same air. Heather tucked away a strand of hair behind her employee's ear. "Then explain it to me, Bridget."

The assistant floundered, studying the cardboard and the view screen of the camera. "I...I mean...what's to say those ARE my prints, but on the paper." Flustered face, pink skin moist from sweat. "I handle all of your operations...my prints are on everything."

The more the woman spoke the more confidence controlled a once stuttering voice. "Sure my prints are on the paper, but how do you know someone just didn't snatch it from the office and typed the letter afterwards?"

Heather crowded even more. She said nothing.

Bridget reacted accordingly. "I don't give away your passwords...I mean that's the only way, right?"

"Is it?" the Mistress inquired, caressing the woman's face.

Tears sprung and it pained her heart, but then all Heather had to do was think back to the fire in her belly, to the man asleep in her bed and the coals smoked more.

The assistant crumbled. "I promise, Lady Heather, I would never do such a thing. I follow your rules to the letter."

"Every syllable?"

The other woman wrung her hands "Of course...we all know every rule."

Like any animal her assistant permeated the air with fear, and Heather went for the jugular. "What did you do?"

Bridget wiped at her face. "Nothing...I mean...I let my boyfriend cover my post from time to time."

And the spray of blood felt warm over her skin, going for the kill. "In my office."

The dumbness of four-legged creatures looked so similar. The assistant grew shaky, hand slapping her mouth in disbelief. "Oh, God."

"Who?" she demanded, stepping even closer. Heather caressed the side of Bridget's face. "Who, my dear?"

"We...we've been dating just a little while."

The steel trap clamped shut over the prey. "Bridget," Heather warned.

"Thomas...I mean...he just started here a month ago."

Then it all fell together and Heather became a whirlwind with a target...her newly employed master. A worker who wore both a mask...and gloves.

* * *

She ran her fingers over the feather boa, a loud pink frilly thing. Very trashy, showgirl Vegas, but then that was what some clients wanted. She preferred the elastic feel of fishnets, the smell of leather, old tools of the trade, hot candle wax and a finely braided whip. Her hand rifled over wire hangers, various vinyl and latex, her hand stopping at a pair of assless chaps.

The staging area was a glorified dressing room and props department. A place for her employees to change into whatever they would use for the night, or house costumes needed for fantasy role plays. Heather expected a highly organized area; seemed someone went shopping and had yet to put the newly acquired clown makeup away. The yellow plastic bag filled to the brim with grease paint and party wigs. A fetish of a whole other variety. Sex wasn't about comedy, but she wouldn't begrudge someone's kinks.

She crumpled the bags, the crinkle of plastic not enough to lull the heat in her veins. Heather could be very methodical, patient when needed, and steeled herself when the door opened. Heavy boots clomped inside, lazy feet not dedicated enough to keep from walking like an oaf.

"Thomas." Heather did not turn, not a single muscle twitched.

"Madame Heather."

"Dignity, integrity, and pride. Words to live by, to uphold and respect." She could hear his breathing. "If one lacks these traits, then they have no chance of upholding them in others."

She did not need to look in the mirror for the chiseled rock of neutrality. Thomas was never pretty to look at, a kindness afforded by the leather mask he gripped between two meaty hands. Squarest jaw that swallowed the rest of his neutral face, very caveman-like...though those were not the things that he'd been hired for. Dull blues eyes stared through the reflection.

"Is there something you needed, Mistress?" Clumsy footfalls and the stink of stale cigarettes were the blips of his movement on her radar.

Thomas couldn't be stealthy if he tried. Except when handed her computer on a silver platter by a hormonally- challenged assistant or hiding behind doors, like a coward.

"Did you know they used to cut off the hands of thieves." Heather, breathed deeply, relaxing clutched fingers before she broke Nick's camera.

"It's rude to talk to someone's back, Lady Heather."

She smiled, walking away from the source of increased sweat. "Playing the game of ignorance is reserved for those with a slow mind. Don't waste my time any more than you have."

"And I don't like insinuations."

Heather kept her back to her subject, nothing like waving the red cloth in front of a dumb bull. "Couldn't you even remember if you wore gloves when you handled the letters, or were you afraid that Bridget would catch on if we traced the prints to her?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

She remained quiet, letting him stew.

"Look at me, Mistress."

Heather would not budge, the room filled more and more with heavy breathing.

"There is a special place in hell for liars, Thomas."

He was quick for a Neanderthal, and Heather turned in time to dig her nails into his chin, holding it firm with his shocked reaction. Her eyes glistened with carefully controlled fury. "Keep in mind where your place is in this domain."

Even blackmailing cowards understood their position in the presence of unquestioned authority. Heather placed the camera on the dresser in one motion, then pulled the black mask out of stunned fingers, her subordinate swallowing.

Heather released her clamp, this time never breaking eye contact as she reached for the balled up, yellow plastic bags from the store. With little fuss, she ripped up a piece of cellophane and stretched it over the lens of the digital camera.

"Still playing coy?" With no answer, Heather held the camera over the leather mask, she peered down at the purplish blob over the eye holes, and tilted the Nikon for her employee to see.

The stone face crumpled with a furrowed brow. "You may have gotten rid of the paper trail, but you never did wash away this stuff away after Nick sprayed you with it. Neat trick, the chemical still glows under a colored filter."

Her big dumb caveman stood shocked, however the one thing she did underestimate was fear. She carried none, but a man shell-shocked with physical evidence of an assault reacted like any frightened animal...by instinct.

Her shoulders slammed the nearest wall, those beefy hands now gripped both Heather's biceps, hard. She didn't mind rough, he forgot that, the pain minimal, his spearmint-covered Marlboro breath a much different story.

"You've got nothing on me."

Heather dug an expensive manicure into his arms, deep, then deeper, until it cut skin. She arched an eyebrow when he chuckled, he was after all a master. He shook her slightly, thumbs leaving bruises with his own show of control.

"Bridget is weak, and this place a one stop shop for all my needs. It was easy to take more."

She raked her claws over his arms, never cowering, no hint of fright. She sought out the bones of his wrists, he grunted, but would not let her go, despite what she knew were pressure points exploited.

He pressed his larger mass closer, his thick hand taking her chin, and forced it upwards. "I'll be leaving now, this has been a good score. How does it feel knowing that you are not as powerful as you think?"

No volcano had anything on her. Heather shoved as hard as she could, but it was like fighting a mountain. In that instant when his toothy grin mocked her, and he mashed his heavy boot over her foot. Heather felt a prickly nervousness tingle and her belly tightened.

_Fear. _It was a very foreign concept.

"Get your fucking hands off her!"

Both of them were shocked to hear a thick drawl, throaty and dangerous.

Nick was in the room and apparently the caveman wasn't quick enough for the CSI's liking because there was a flurry of movement. Thomas let her go, his yelp in tandem with an ungraceful fall to the floor. It took several seconds to realize that Nick had kicked the crap out of the back of the brute's knee cap, and then stomped on the front of it for good measure.

The Texan was in front of her now like a shield, playing cowboy. A helpless pioneer woman she was not, but Heather wouldn't deny the criminalist some comeuppance. He held his arm out, warning her to the corner, anticipating some kind of reprisal.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" Nick taunted, gauging the movements of other man.

Heather could smell the testosterone radiating from Nick, and was more than a little surprised by the more fiery side. So he wasn't all just humble pie. _Good. _She knew tons of passion waited for release.

"How's the leg? You fucking gimp," the brute challenged.

Nick kept close to her. "Funny, I could say the same about you...the gimp part that is."

Thomas had still not gotten off the floor, staggering about. "You all have got jack squat."

Heather could see the vein pulsating away next to Nick's eye, his chest puffed out, arms straining inside his shirt sleeves. He stood almost bow-legged, obviously hiding any weakness. She didn't touch him, wouldn't signal a chink in the armor, but she did move to stand beside him.

The bull gathered himself, like a drunkard trying to stand without tipping to one side, sneer in full effect. "You both lose."

He brushed aside both of them, sending a broad shoulder into Nick's ribs, snickering as the CSI shoved back, barely having an effect.

He basked in triumph near the door. "You two belong to each other, both pathetic."

Heather rarely rose to any bait, but her anger had been brought to the surface, stepping towards the traitor, but Nick moved to block her path. Her ex-employee laughed again, and than made her bolder. _Again_ the criminalist moved in rapid succession with her, face hiding the extra lines of pain of trying to keep her grounded.

She stared at him, this man couldn't just get away with all he had done, but brown orbs locked with hers, and sent a silent signal message.

_Trust me._

And she did.

The brute swung open the door, but his feet never budged. Heather moved past the criminalist who shifted to keep in step. She pressed forward with Nick next to her, his self-assurance infectious. Curious at the caveman's sudden hesitancy she peered past his bulky frame to see the hallway filled with staff members.

Heather was at a loss for words...so was the man who betrayed her...betrayed them all.

A hand larger than them Thomas' grabbed him by the shirt collar and hauled him into the masses. Gunter appeared at the doorway. "Our business stays within the Domain." The German then winked at Nick, and the door closed with the man responsible for so much turmoil to be dealt with privately, but it would be taken care of.

Heather looked back at the CSI whose _innocent look_ was faker than some of the boob jobs of her workers. "You rallied the troops."

Nick touched her arm, hand gently caressed the new tarnished areas. "Yeah."

She traced fingers along his face. "You're a sneaky devil."

He laughed. "I'll take that as a compliment."

The mistress perked her eyebrows. "Yes, and there are so many more."

His eyes glistened, and she took stock of his sweat pants and boots. "You look ridiculous."

"Gee, thanks," he purred, now leaning heavily along the wall for support.

"How did you manage to get here so quickly?" she inquired, still reveling in his earlier displays of command.

His head bowed and she knew that he was hiding something. "Tell me," she urged.

Nick ducked, but mumbled. "I had Gunter help me."

She grinned at the idea of her overjoyed infatuated coworker. "Let's get you back to bed. You need to relax."

Heather offered her shoulder and he wrapped an arm around it. The mistress slipped an arm around his waist. "Thank you, Nick. For everything."

He ran his hand through her long hair. "I am here to serve, Lady Heather."

Heather didn't say a word and the CSI knew he ran right into that one. She smiled coyly again.

He smiled. "Of course, I have other ways to share appreciation."

This time Heather didn't respond. Actions spoke louder than words.

* * *

A/N:

Choice time. This is the end for some of you , just read and let you imagination go on. Everything nobel and good. For those who would like to see the real ending, the ninth chapter will be for you. Thanks to everyone who followed and expressed views on this tiny sideproject. The next major story will be filled with angst, and not a sexual thing in sight.


	9. Chapter 9

This Last Chapter is rated **M.**

* * *

He stood there, several days after his last time inside the domain. Away from temptation, from sights and smells that triggered more primal instincts. Time to heal, to think...and for once wasn't that overrated?

He wasn't a ladies man as people whispered about in the hallways of the Lab when he first moved to Vegas. Not that he didn't know how to treat a woman in all the right ways; in respect, chivalry and yes, it wasn't pride, but Nick knew all he needed to in the art of pleasure. No one ever complained, and he had an ego, just like any other male.

He didn't come bearing flowers, or invitations to dinner. In front of the mirror at home he'd opted for a button-up striped shirt, comfy jeans. Picked them out for ease, not with his typical debate over what was too much or not enough.

He stood staring, waiting for the next move…knowing that this was not a league he played around with very often. Never in a million years with a woman like her.

It was equal parts exciting and intimidating. If he could just get his mind and body to agree on which part and use it to his full advantage.

Heather offered him a wine glass, filled with a fine red. He sipped on a beer instead, drawn once again to her dark lips.

They said nothing.

Each sat in a chair within her bedroom, candles the only light source. The mistress was either very confident, or the setting was just another example of a style difference. He had been tempted to visit the Martha Stewart Gothic website Greg had mentioned way back when, and couldn't bring himself to do something so cheesy and possibly insulting.

The alcohol made him warm, mixing it even the tiniest amount with the reduced amount of painkiller was stupid, so he kept to tiny swallows for social reasons. Though part of his brain insisted he drink the whole bottle all the way if not more.

"You think too much."

He licked foam from the edge of his lips. "What?"

Heather set his glass down, two fingers closed his eyes, he felt them twitch under the lids. A warm breath tickled the inside of his ear. "What do you really want?"

Walls, he was sick of them, of the protection. He didn't need to see what was right in front of him.

Nick said what first came to mind. "Out of this seat."

"This position has its perks, but I agree the bed is a more suitable place."

God, on the floor and in various rooms, but never in a chair. That got him firing on all cylinders. She tugged on his arm and he rose to his feet still blinded by her lingering fingers.

"Um..." Lips were on his, dry grapes and Harp mingled. A rake of hands through his hair, fingers curling, yanking. A trail of wetness from the corner of his mouth, then a divot inside, probing. Ravishing. A tongue brushed over his teeth, then she nibbled on his bottom lip.

Ten fingers over his scalp, hot fire down his neck, penetrating muscles along both sides of his spine, ending their way at his ass.

"Keep your eyes closed, move backwards to the bed."

She found her way to his hips, urging him, fingers anchored in belt loops and for some reason he obeyed, stepping awkwardly. Salt, skin, even the flavor of blackberry lipstick, air wasn't so important when you're too busy ignoring it. Because his legs hit a post, and he was too busy memorizing the inside of her mouth to care.

He had two handfuls of thick, tangled up hair and still managed to cup each side of her face. The movement of her jaw underneath his fingers was tantalizing, knowing exactly what the rest of her mouth was doing to him.

The tip of hot madness entered his ear. A flick, then swirling sensation, and he could not stop moaning. His ear was an erogenous zone, the lobe suckled, chewed gently, and the inside tickled by a whisper.

"Get on your back, Nick."

The mattress dipped as he crawled over it, body shivering with the need of those skilled lips over the rest of him. Sprawled over the satin bedspread, so blistering hot that before he could grunt out the need to shed his shirt, her hands were on him again, tugging it out of his jeans.

Despite how hard he was, an alarm bell was loud in ears still reeling from being probed with that goddamn wonderful tongue.

"Wait." It was nearly impossible to get past a salivating mouth. Heather's warmth spread to the very marrow of his bones, straddling over him. It took total force of will, a hand clamped to each arm, to keep her from popping every last button.

Those eyes... She wanted to. Nick opened his, gaining equilibrium. "I'm not someone…" He swallowed before his throat dried up again. "You don't have to be in control all the time. This...this should be shared. I can give as much as you need."

Heather dug one knee into the bed on each side of him. "I want to share, Nick... I just want to give you something you won't forget."

"Allow me to reciprocate." He held her tight, waiting to release the pause button.

"Oh, I expect nothing less. But..." She brought his hand to her lips. "Allow me my turn."

Nick loosened his hold and she undid the bottom section of his shirt, while his hands fidgeted with the top part, unveiling his chest of smooth, tanned skin, and well-defined pectorals. Every rib another tribute to his six-pack abs that she ran her fingers down. "Keep your eyes closed, Nick. I promise you'll enjoy this."

He let out a groan, mixed with an unexpected laugh. "I don't want to be tied up."

It amused her. "No need for that," as she lifted her weight briefly, crawling over him, balanced on one knee and reached for a drawer. Her skirt rode up her thighs revealing to him the lack of any panties.

He ruined her stockings when a hand snagged and snarled the weave in response.

Slowly she settled on top of his pelvis, ever aware of the bulge straining against the denim. Heather adjusted her hips to make him groan more, still very attentive to his left leg. She undid the cap of lotion, rubbed the scented oil between her fingers, then poured a trail down his chest, allowing the liquid to run down the contours of his chiseled stomach.

It was warm to the touch, and made silky the dips separating each rib. Each luscious touch increased muscle constrictions, and aided in the streaks of pink lotion spilling over Nick's panting belly. Heather marveled at the canvas. Bright stickiness spread over clean, beautiful skin. Wholesomeness that her tongue painted with vigor. She began at the navel, dancing around, lapping cherry and flesh.

Every stroke earned increased audible sounds that encouraged the heat and tingle of the oil. Up his sternum, a detour down one curve, then back up, blowing along the sizzling skin. Nick squirmed under the whisper of her breath. Definitely not enough, but she had plans.

Adding oil from her pallet, another drop was squeezed right around his pecs, and tiny rivulets mixed with beading perspiration. On eye level with his chest, she blew one warm steady breath over the pool of stained skin. And waited and waited some more.

His nipple was hard before she even brushed enamel over flesh. Teeth, then greedy licks. That did the trick. Nick cried out with need, both his strong hands latched and sunk into her shoulder blades. Heather desired his digits to scrape through to the very flesh.

"No touching yet," she cooed, and pushed straining arms back to the mattress aware of every vein now popping to the surface.

Nick's instincts pushed upwards shaking off the restraint of his wrists. Just as teeth slipped from one nub, the mouth devoured his right one, suckling, twirling with warm fuzziness. Sensations of heaven were sent down nerve endings, to every fiber of his being. His body shook, and that little tilt thing she did with her hips, only stoked his rock hard cock. His hands melded flat to the bed to maintain his word, though it didn't keep him from rocking his hips forward to create friction over his groin.

Three senses, hearing, touch, and smell. Cherry sweetness wafted through his nose infused with that slip and slide of delicious lips. Sounds of wet smacking ate him up within oil swirls.

His only release was to gyrate under her, because his aching hardness demanded stimulation, begged for the same warmth and attention so lavishly adorned on his chest. It hurt, that was how fucking much it needed to be touched, and freed from his jeans.

A trail of moist fire down his belly, a belt loosened, and he panted, and moaned. "Please."

Nails ran vibrations down his zipper, sending shock waves right back through the rest of him. Damn if he didn't explode right there.

"God, please," he groveled even more, as fingers massaged the inside of both thighs right before his jeans were yanked off in one swift motion. His erection poked right through the opening of his boxers, and his face cooled with the droplets of sweat the action formed over his heated face.

Then he jackknifed, sent instantly to his elbows; his hands sought her but clawed smooth covers instead.

He couldn't breathe! Eyes rolled inside his head, satin heat along his cock, little waves with every fluffy puff of breath. Pure liquid pleasure, and Nick was unable control the little noises of ecstasy. And that's before he got buried to the hilt in a living vacuum.

Fingers found pulse points right behind each knee and somehow the nerves to his thighs took a road trip. The wound in the left one which should surely be in agony now, felt more like jelly. That meant that everything down lower had somehow overcompensated for the atoms ricocheting through his limbs in search of adding to the axons of nerves.

Bright fireworks burst behind his lids, sensation a living animal. His feet dug deep into the bedsprings, creaking with a pressure that could create holes. His knees bent, and he pumped into the cascade of suction. There was a constant thumping sound; his ears were amped up by his squeezed-shut eyes. The headboard banged the wall in time to a glorious, almost aggressive blowjob.

And that was before she began to hum.

Heather had excellent muscle control; taking Nick in fully was a talent she enjoyed. Creating those sounds out of him made her redouble the effort. A simple vibration of vocal cords and the Texan plunged in deeper, no iota of forethought to what he was doing. That was the trick, to make him drop all those sweet building blocks and let go... Become primal and abandoned.

Then she switched things up, no, he wasn't going to climax just yet, the wild ride of sensation had just begun. She twirled slowly, with meticulous intent. Sweet berry flavor merged with his natural lubrication. Up, and around the head switching speeds to keep him on the brink. His elbows gave and Nick collapsed back to the bed, huffing for air. Smiling to herself, Heather teased along a thick juicy vein.

His knees buckled too, flailing with the momentum change, around and around she went, until he broke the rules.

"Now."

Heather felt him pull away and before her mind caught on to the fact, she'd been flipped onto her back. Nick's flushed, dazed face loomed over her.

"Time to let go for once."

That deep accent made her purr, but it was that tone that made her flip and _want _him so damn badly. It was CSI Stokes' voice, reserved for killers and suspects, directed right at her. The _don't fuck with me_, full of bravado and power voice.

A set of hands slipped under her loose, silky shirt, and found her breasts. Pinching and teasing, a mouth on hers, cherry flavor mixed with tongue and lips once again. One hand shoved her skirt down to her knees, and he didn't seem to care that she hadn't had time to even kick it off her ankles.

Nick was all about movement, and touch.

Her body was clay, his hands molding, smoothing as he lay over her. She ground his stiff heat along her kiln, fire to flame. Nick took his time; what he didn't rub, he licked. Skin was nothing but a surface to expertly cleanse with an artful muscle.

Suck, twirl, and nibble. Repeat.

Nothing was left untouched, from the hollow of Heather's throat, to her vulnerable stomach fluttered by the things he did to her navel. He was both leather and lace. Sweet compassion ignited an untapped keg of nitroglycerin. All the sorrow, the buried pain, masked guilt, and unfulfilled need...a bomb ready to explode.

Unleashed, he was a man given free rein. Allowed to _feel_, to want and receive. And she would damn well let him. Because after this night, it was back to formalities. One playing field roped off from another. A stranger finding his way back... After being gone somewhere foreign and tasted the most forbidden fruit.

The room filled with moans, unintelligible words, her nails dug into his back, and that was all it took for him to find Eden.

It was blur for a quick moment, safety and control enough to grab the condom, slip it on, and keep on with the aaaawws and oooohhhhs. A slurp there, a bite elsewhere. Still the foray was with careful consideration.

If only all lovemaking came with this kind of consideration. But that was the point...this wasn't just sex.

Heather had enough, and it was time to shift gears. Just enough of a forceful shove, and she was above. Eyes glistened at his heaving chest and gorgeous body. She moved on to him. He entered her, inch by inch. Filling her body with him, watching his eyes now opened, taking in her face... Every twitch and every inescapable grin and groan.

Then... There it was. The sweet spot for them both. He sucked in a breath to her loud exhale. She acclimated to him and they fused with each other. Nick arched each time to meet her with passion, but held back. When Heather set a more challenging pace, his hands encouraged every thrust. To think she wanted to spare him a strain to his injury. The way he reciprocated tenfold made her move down on him with more flair and creativity.

Nick branded her back with his prints; she returned the favor with red hash marks over his chest that faded away as she did every trick in the book to prolong the experience. Chemistry was unpredictable and the combustion near its height. With other nights filled with screams, and inflicted pain; the sounds of their acts filled her ears with notes of a sweet symphony.

Ebb and flow of simple release and expression. As they reached their shared peak, she vowed not to ignore the core values of Eros. When he let out a cry of fulfillment, she bestowed on him thanks for this moment with her own scream.

Nick was flushed, body and mind hazy and spent. A sweet, lazy glow filled every pore. Heather lay beside him, tracing small circles over his chest, as he did the same to her hair. He knew basking would sustain him for a long while. This wasn't some game; both knew their roles when he entered her bedroom.

An alien in her world, but one who escaped with knowledge so few were privy too, they all wore masks. She during different circumstances, but deep down inside he knew how very few had seen the real lady of the Domain.

He concentrated on the scent of her hair one final time.

"It's good to open up to someone," her voiced drifted through his ears.

Nick knew what she referred to, and it wasn't about mad passionate sex. He didn't know _where_ that part of him came from. Partially scared by it, but he relished in the sections of the shell it broke away.

"I guess it'll be a while before the next time you come by."

He massaged her scalp. "I hope it might be. Having to come here on a case would mean that something bad had happened."

She turned to her side facing him with a smile on her lips. Nick laughed again, then some more knowing she knew exactly what that gesture meant.

"I would rather your work didn't bring you here... But I'm glad you'll be back at it."

He felt sticky, drying oil over his skin. That wasn't enough to make him move. "It's who I am. And I won't deny it."

Heather traced the side of his face, and back into his tussled hair. "I knew you'd find your way back. We need the Nick Stokes of the world."

Nick kissed her forehead and she leaned into it. "I won't deny what that alley did to me, but I won't let it rule the rest of my life." He nestled down within the confines of silk and satin. "Thanks for helping show me that."

Heather rubbed her fingers over his heavy lids, sending him off to sleep. Content to revel in the warmth, feeling contented that even behind the walls of the domain, there were windows to pure souls. Every place had a purpose and she would strive to make sure hers did the work needed to be done.

* * *

A/N:

Thanks to those who supported this wild bunny. It's out of my system now, and I feel very re-charged. Every once in a while a writer needs to try and explore new things. Next CSI project will be the giant beast, written with Beth.Expect a very long story, with meaty chapters. It should see the light of day in early Sept.


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